Phoenix Song
by Silent Tigress
Summary: Sometimes fire, untamed, unstoppable, destructive, is the only thing that can cause rebirth from the ashes...WxOC
1. Prelude

**A/N: Hello! Yes, I deleted the first story of Kestrel (and yes, I changed her last name. I didn't realize that until a little while ago…). I came to think of her as this pathetic, sniveling, whining little Mary Sue, so I decided to scrap the story and start all over again. Some parts of this new story may seem familiar if you read the old one, some parts may not. But I hope that you guys like it anyways. In my mind it's better, at any rate. This first chapter is just to let you have a feel for the new Kestrel and who she is, what she's been through, etc. Apologies for it being so short.**

**Have fun reading and _PLEASE REVIEW_ (even if it sucks)!!!!!!**

**Thanks!**

_**t.I.G.R.E.S.S. **_

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**_Sky High 11th Grade Honors English Class_**

_**Assignment**: Introductory Essay. _

_Welcome to Mrs. Hertz's Honors English class. Write an essay introducing yourself to the class. Some suggestions for writing topics:_

_-Description of your physical appearance_

_-Your background_

_-Your family_

_-Any pets_

_-Hobbies or extracurricular activities_

_-Anything else that's important to you_

_We want to get to know you better! Please note that this assignment will be read aloud in class. Thank you!_

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**Introductory Essay**

By Kestrel Ramirez

Flight.

How can I possibly describe such a thing? The freedom, the joy, the essence of elation. The sun on your back, the breeze tangled in your hair, the wind whistling through your feathers. Nothing around you, holding you back, just the open sky and the world beneath you. And the peace…there are little sounds but the occasional jet plane, birds going past, and your own wingbeat, steady as your heart.

Maybe now you have a general idea of what it means to be flying.

I am sixteen years old. I guess I'm a little short for my age, standing at 5' 3". My mom's short so I guess it's in the genes. I have brownish-black hair up to my shoulders and what most people would call an "olive" complexion. I have a mixed ethnicity, being 75 Hispanic and 25 white.

Anyways, my name is Kestrel Ramirez. Yeah, my first name is a weird name by society's standards. But you may have guessed already that I'm not like 97 of the American population, much like the rest of the people in this school.

I'm a freak.

You may be thinking, "Wow, she's a little harsh on herself, and us, for that matter." Let me assure you, it's the truth. I don't regret it, not when I'm flying. But when I'm on the ground, bound by gravity and society's rules for being "normal", I must admit that I do. What makes me so different, so strange?

There are many things I could start with. One is the fact that my father was a superhero. Yup, that's right, just like out of the comics. And yes, that's right, _was_. He was killed four years ago, sacrificing himself to save the world.

Cliché, right?

Welcome to my life, one big cliché after another. The only difference? It's real. All of it.

Back to my father. His name was Gabriel Thomas Ramirez, better known to the world as Hawkfight. He won't be remembered as the strongest or the quickest hero in the world. He wasn't the Commander or Jetstream. He was, however, one of the smartest, the most level-headed, the most resourceful, the most enduring. His powers included the ability to sprout wings at will. When unfurled wingtip to wingtip, they measured around twenty feet of dark, auburn wings. They weren't exactly like birds' wings, though. He could fly at speeds up to 200 miles an hour.

What's more is that my father could commune with any winged thing, and even control them to a certain point. I'll never forget the day that he called down a sparrow hawk, just for me, for my namesake. It's one of the earliest memories I have, of him laughing and smiling and me stroking the burbling little bird on my wrist as it chirped and screeched good-naturedly.

You're wondering, aren't you? How someone could possibly fight and win against villains with those powers? My father trained himself, trained hard, taking on every kind of martial arts that he came across. He was strong, he was cunning, he was tough.

And he died.

When he found out that there was someone trying to implant nuclear bombs in all parts of the world to detonate at the exact same time, my father didn't hesitate. He took on the task before him, and yes, he managed to stop all of the bombs from blowing. But not before giving up his life in the process. The villain went down, and my dad along with him. It's not like the comic books. The real "game" of superheroes is dangerous, deadly, lethal. Don't be fooled by the wise-cracks of Spider-man or the apparent immortality of Superman.

In real life, good people die.

It was harder on my mom, Gail Ramirez. In fact, I don't even know if she'll ever be the same. It's like some part of her died along with him, because after that, her powers left her and never returned. Trauma shock, or something like that. All I know is that for days she was in her room and never came out. I could hear her crying in there at all hours, day and night. My mother used to be Gale, the mistress of storms, but she'd retired long before I was born. I guess that's one of the factors that contributes to the fact that I didn't really inherit her powers, mainly my dad's. Sometimes I can call up a wind or two to aid me in flight, but that's about it.

Anyways, my mother snapped out of it, or at least so she said. She apologized for leaving me alone for so long, and promised to look after me no matter what. But sometimes when I have my wings out I can feel her staring at them with so much emotion, regret, sorrow, bitterness. And I know that's she's not fully over it.

That's right. That's what I inherited from my dad. Some kids have mementos from their deceased ones. Maybe a necklace, or a box, or something of that nature. Well, I have wings. Much like my dad's, only lighter and more reddish. And like him, I can put them away at will. The only trouble is that I hate doing it. I feel…bound, chained, restrained…when I don't have my wings. It doesn't feel right. Due to my reluctance I often have them out at the wrong times. Normal people stare. Super people stare.

_Freak._

Whatever. I've learned to deal with it. I don't care as much as I used to. My mom told me that when I was in kindergarten (during that time I was just learning to fly and didn't know how to put my wings away), I would come home crying because the other kids picked on me. Oh, and I also know how to call birds, another gift from my dad.

I'm learning how to survive now. Yeah, I was as sad as my mom was when my dad left our lives. Yeah, I struggled. With everything.

And yeah, it sucks that I'm stuck in this school now.

Just a few months ago, this past June, my mom decided that it would be better if we packed up and moved from my hometown in New Mexico. She wanted to move back to her childhood home, here in Maxville, where she could learn to be a widow in a place where she was familiar and at comfort and ease. But it meant ripping me from _my_ childhood place, where _I_ grew up. Even if I was born and raised till I was four in Maxville it's as familiar to me as the middle of the Sahara Desert is to a seagull. I had to say goodbye to the few friends that I had in New Mexico, and spent this past summer learning how to deal. With everything.

Like I was saying, I'm learning how to survive. Life sucks. You have to learn how to deal with life sucking. Nothing is ever going to be perfect or wonderful or "normal". But that's who I am. One big cliché. Correction, one big winged cliché. As my dad used to say, "_Que sera, sera_." What will be, will be. What I'm learning is that there are good things and bad things, and that I can make bad things good things.

Flying is one of the good things, and it always will be.

And I won't give up, even when things seem impossible and bleak and hopeless. I will strive to become more than a bird, more than mortal. When something seems to strike me down and kill me, I will rise again.

I'll be a phoenix. Rising from ashes and failures and heartbreaks. You can't keep me down, I'll be revived. I'll recover. That is the last gift my father gave me, the determination to move on. I'm not quite there yet, I'm still just a sparrow hawk. But I will become one, for my father's sake.

So that's who I am, Kestrel Ramirez. I hope this essay is good enough because I'm sure as heck not going to write another one. And if you think I'm going to read this out loud in class, you're crazy. No offense or anything.

-Kestrel


	2. The Music of the Night

**Chapter 1: Clouds**

**A/N: Again, a short chapter. Sorry, but I had to break it up a certain way to make myself happy (and to make the story flow better). :) Anyways…two words: PLEASE REVIEW:D**

**t.I.G.r.E.S.S.**

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It was happening again.

Even in my sleep, I could sense it, feel it, taste it. The nauseating, cold feeling that ate away at my peace, that ravaged my dreams and destroyed my rest. A bitter and choking taste, something I wished I could just spit out of my mouth and be rid of. But that was impossible. I was well-attuned to realizing when the attacker took over. The monster that was tearing me apart at night had been here before.

My nightmares.

This time it wasn't as bad as the night before. But how is it possible to have a "good" nightmare? It wasn't as horrifying, and yet it was. I felt like I was floating through the blender of my memories as bits and pieces and chunks of recollection and exaggerated imaginings went flying by. They weren't pleasant. Things that had been naïve and careless back then were painful and terrifying now, amplified by the dark arena of the night wakings.

My father, whispering to me gently as we sat on the roof as I cried selfishly and childishly because he couldn't come to my ballet recital.

"I'm sorry, I'll come next time," he promised. "I have to take care of this mission. Sorry, Kes."

_No, you won't be able to._

My father smiling as he took off in a surge of a strong downbeat, his soft wingtips brushing my cheek like a paternal kiss.

_Dad! Don't go! You can't leave me and Mom again! _I reached out to grab his arm to stop him from leaving, but, of course, in a nightmare, you're all but powerless.

And then I saw an event I hadn't witnessed but had pictured a thousand times. The moment of impact, when my father Hawkfight slammed into Discord for the fatal blow. Discord was laughing as he died, though. Laughing the last laugh. I hated it. Because even though Hawkfight had disabled the last bomb, he hadn't disabled the charge on Discord. In a violet array of sparks and flashes, the lair exploded. I watched all of it dully, like someone witnessing a cruelty through blood-stained, broken glass.

I opened my eyes.

With a defeated sigh, I turned to look at the clock. Five minutes until six in the morning. It was a whole twenty minutes before my alarm would go off, but I knew that sleep would not come easily again. Not in the short span that I had. Not after the last time that I'd closed my eyes.

I rolled out of bed, landing lightly on the balls of my feet. My mother would probably get mad at me for going barefoot again; it's always a pet peeve of hers because she constantly has cold feet while I prefer to have no shoes on.

That is, she would chide me if she was sober. It's hard to know these days, as we draw nearer and nearer towards the anniversary. Mom never drinks herself into a stuttering idiot, or until she cries like some of the people I've seen drunk. Instead, she drinks until she doesn't know what she's doing, who she is, or where she is. She'll scream at me and scream at me, blaming me for the finances, the condition of the house, her poor choices. Sometimes she'll even blame me for my father's death. Once she pukes or regains her senses, she'll apologize and promise not to do it again, only to do it again the next night, and the next, until a few weeks after the anniversary day.

And the thing is, Mom only cries once she's sober.

I don't hold it against her. I can't. I know she doesn't mean the things that come out of her mouth. And I only have to allow this to her a few weeks out of every year. Every other day she's a perfectly fine mother. I can't cave in and start feeling sorry for myself. For the memory of my dad, I have to stay strong for both of us.

As I headed down the stairs, I heard a familiar sound. It put a little relief into me. I'd missed one of Mom's episodes by a hair. She stood, over the kitchen sink, getting rid of the last traces of the previous night's alcohol.

"Morning," I said, reaching over and putting a towel next to the sink. Then I went to the fridge to pour myself a glass of orange juice. Mom straightened after a moment and wiped her face.

"Good morning, Kestrel."

She looked tired. I realized that she'd probably been out all night, drinking at her favorite bar.

"Kes. Could you make me some tea, hon?" Mom asked, leaning against the cabinets wearily. While Dad was around, Mom didn't drink at all. She'd used during her teenage years because of her abusive father, but only lightly and every now and then. Dad managed to break it completely three years after they got married. He made her feel ashamed every time he brewed her his special anti-hangover tea that he made out of herbs and stuff that his dad taught him when he was a kid. So Mom quit and was happy. But once Dad was gone, two years after he died, Mom started drinking again. It's fortunate Dad taught me how to make the hangover tea, or I think Mom would've gotten fired a long time ago for not showing up to work. She gets the worst hangover headaches I've ever seen or heard of.

"Sure," I said, and took things out the cabinets while putting a kettle of water to boil. I threw everything together in the cup and waited for the water. I glanced back at Mom, who'd staggered to the table and plopped down into a chair exhaustedly. "Are you sure you're going to make it to work?"

She waved a hand at me like she was shaking the words away. Her other hand was busy rubbing her temples. "Of course, of course. The tea will do the trick, it always does."

"All right," I said dutifully. I took some eggs out of the refrigerator. I wanted to make a good breakfast.

_If I couldn't have a full night's sleep, I might as well have a full stomach_, I figured ruefully.

"Hurry, Kes, or you're going to be late for school," Mom said. She'd leaned forward until her head was buried in her arms.

"Uh…yeah, of course, Mom," I said quietly. Drunk or not, Mom's common sense and awareness still weren't there. Best not to argue with her about such a silly thing. I had a good hour and a half before I needed to get going.

Most kids had two hours at six o' clock in the morning. But during this time of the year, I needed the extra half hour. I needed to be able to think a little and enjoy the peace and quiet once I was up in the sky.

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I stared at my closet, dismayed. It held all kinds of items of clothing, from "so last year" to "can you get any nerdier?". I couldn't afford all the "in" clothes. If everyone wanted me to dress like everyone else so badly, why did they charge so much for it? I shook my head in disdain and closed my closet door. With Mom's modest income and the maintenance of important things like the mortgage and the gas bills (not to mention Mom's recent alcohol sprees), we barely made ends meet, much less had the extra money lying around to furnish a well-stocked wardrobe. I was planning on getting a job sooner rather than later.

Skirts were out of the question today because of my mode of transportation (I'd made the mistake once before, and some of the more idiotic guys are still calling me "Polka Dot" because of the panties I'd had on at the moment), so I pulled my favorite pair of jeans from my drawer and slipped into them. I then scanned the contents of my shirt drawer and decided on a deep red button up shirt.

"Well, that's that," I said aloud. I shut my drawers, pulling on my scruffy red Converse to accent the outfit, and grabbed my black messenger bag, complete with the weight of my math and social studies books. I also snagged one of my favorite wristbands with a red star on it and slipped it on.

I smiled slightly as I stopped in front of the mirror. I saw a short girl who hadn't gotten enough sleep dressed in half punk, half preppy clothes. With disheveled hair. And something stuck between her two front teeth. And strawberry jam smudged on her cheek, leftover from her morning toast. Well, I could do something about the latter three. The first few I couldn't do much about.

After I brushed my teeth, put on a little eyeliner and mascara, and fixed my hair into a loose, low ponytail, I was ready to go. I went downstairs again to check on my mom. Not surprisingly, she'd fallen asleep on the kitchen table. My eyebrows creased slightly in worry. I hoped she'd make it in time. Just in case, I set the timer on the kitchen counter for fifteen minutes more. I just hoped she wouldn't sleep through it.

I stopped above her and bent down, kissing her cheek.

"I'm off, Mom," I said softly. And then I went out the front door.

The cold morning air nipped at me through my oversized zip up sweatshirt. I pulled it up all the way, trying to stay warm for the few minutes I'd be able to keep it on, and braced myself against the breeze's insistent tug.

Glancing up at the sky, I saw it was fairly overcast. Gray clouds blocked the horizon, looming overhead menacingly, threatening to spoil the day. But just past them, the warm sun called silently out to me, promising better weather ahead. I called back in acquiescence with a smile.

_I'm coming_.

I pulled off my sweatshirt and concentrated for a split second. I felt a sliding sensation in my back, one that felt kind of like taking off your best dress shoes after having worn them for a whole day, and my wings spread out of my back. It felt like a release and a liberation all at once. It's uncomfortable for me to keep my wings in for too long; I wish I could leave them out all the time. But unfortunately, the dictator of society has ruled that russet, auburn, and dark brown wings are not to be worn at any time in public.

I took a slight running start. Maybe someday I'll be strong enough to take off standing, but that takes a lot of wing strength. It's a lot easier when you have momentum. I pumped my wings down, and then I was off the ground.

I was free.


	3. Masquerade

**A/N: My picture of Steven Strait on my wall is brooding off into the distance as I write this…:glomps:…ahem, right, sorry, you probably didn't need to know that…**

**Okay, so I haven't updated in forever. _Lo siento_. I'm not even going to try to make an excuse. Anyways, this is a bit of a corny and cliché chapter, but I'm too tired and lazy to make it more original so this is going to have to do (I'll revamp it soon, promise). w00t. As always, read, _por favor_, and leave me a nice little thought on the chapter. **

**t.I.G.r.E.S.S.**

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I stared down my opponent, not letting any hesitation or frustration show through. So, the opposition thought it was tough. Unbreakable. Resilient. But it was wrong. I was finally going to beat it. Yes, today was the day.

"All right, it's you and me," I said underneath my breath. And then I reached out my hand. Right…left…right…yank!

"No!" I growled, yanking harder. But to no avail. The locker seemed to laugh at me, at my struggles and desperation.

"Someday, I will get it on the first try!" I vowed, and tried again. It's so sad. Usually, I finally figure it out during the last month of school. I swear, it's a conspiracy.

"You're such an idiot!" a voice right behind me said loudly.

And then, suddenly I was on the floor, knocked aside by a cold hand. A literally cold hand. I groaned and sat up. _How thoughtful of you, Freeze Girl_, I thought, gingerly touching the back of my shirt. Sure enough, frozen solid. Nice.

Amy "Freeze Girl" Samuels didn't look back once at me. I felt a stab of irritation. What kind of people just knock whoever they feel like aside like that? Without even saying "Sorry" or "Are you okay?"? They grow up to be hit-and-run drivers, I imagine.

As I stood up, someone bumped me again. I was jostled forward, nearly colliding with my locker. Maybe I should've just stayed pinned against the locker to avoid incoming traffic. As the person went brushing past, I felt a sudden surge of heat go by. And no, it wasn't because he's a hot guy. Well, I guess he kind of is, but that's not the point. The guy glanced back at me and nodded an apology. His name is Warren Peace, and he's a pyrokinetic. He's also in my homeroom class. His relationship to me can be summed up in three words:

He scares me.

Yeah, you thought I was going to say "I like him", didn't you? But no, Warren Peace is so freakin' scary. He's a pyrokinetic. But that's not even the worst of it. He has long dark hair with an unnatural streak of red in it, wears a lot of black leather, tattoos on both his arms, and a general bad attitude.

I think he'd give my _abuella_ a heart attack just by the sight of him. I shook my head, looking after him as he surged his way past everyone, chasing after Amy. Who is, by the way, his girlfriend. How he swung that, I have no idea. I guess some girls really go for "bad boys". And I guess I'm not one of them. Even if he is kind of hot (There are many jokes WAAAAAY too overdone TO DEATH about Warren and his hotness, so I'm just going to let this one go).

The warning bell rang.

"Crap!"

I spun around, and, with a lot of effort, managed to coax my obstinate locker open. I grabbed my first period book and tried to run, pushing and shoving my way against the herd of panicking wildebeest that I like to think of as the student body.

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"McAndrews."

"Here."

"Michaels."

"Yo."

"O'Donnell."

"Here."

"Peace."

Silence. I glanced at the chair next to me, wondering vaguely where Mr. Black Leather had run off to. He'd probably settled things down with Freeze Girl and was making out with her somewhere where the teachers wouldn't think to look.

The door flew open with a thundering bang. I jumped, half ready to take flight like a good bird does when it's startled. I calmed myself down as I saw it was only Warren. He tossed a crumpled slip of yellow onto Mr. Godoi's desk and slunk over to his seat next to me.

I looked away and back to my homework, which I was hastily trying to do before next period. I'd completely forgotten about the BioChem homework, until I'd heard two kids in that class exchanging answers to the worksheet.

Mr. Godoi looked less than pleased with Warren, and glared at him fiercely. "Well, thank you, Mr. Peace, for coming to class. However, next time you decide to show up ten minutes late, don't bother coming here. Instead, redirect yourself to the principal's office. Because next time you're ten minutes late, it will be your fifth tardy. Understand?"

Sullenly, Warren lifted a few fingers up, then down lazily like a suffocating fish's last flop. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I scribbled down "biometrics" in less than my best handwriting. If it came down to finishing my homework and winning the "neatest penmanship" award, it was no contest.

I tried to figure out what had happened between Warren and Amy. I figured most people who had just come out from a makeout session (like I have experience) look happy, smug, maybe even a little relaxed. Instead, Warren looked tense and brooding. Though, truthfully, Warren always looks like he's brooding over something. This time, though, he looked like there was something really bothering him. It's the same look my mom gets when she's trying to do a crossword puzzle in pen, and she's had to white out answers about six times and still can't figure out the right answer. Only Warren definitely looked worse.

I looked away.

"Ramirez."

Girlfriend troubles. Had to be.

"Ramirez!"

What was number six? I couldn't remember the answer for the life of me. Oh, right, I think it was fusion of some kind…it was on the tip of my tongue…

"Hey. You."

I felt a sharp poke in my side and glanced up. First at the pencil that had been so rudely jabbed into my ribs. Then at the holder of said offending pencil, who just happened to be Warren. I gave him an icy stare. I'd almost been there! I'd almost had the answer! Just because he was in a bad mood _so_ did not mean he could run around poking people if he felt like it! I promptly forgot to be intimidated and glared at him.

"What do you want?" I hissed.

Icy stares, apparently, were things Warren was well-acquainted with. Especially with his choice of girlfriends. He shrugged. "Well, I guess I don't really care if he marks you absent. Or if he bursts a blood vessel for me talking in the middle of class. But it's going to happen in the next ten seconds."

My eyes flew to Mr. Godoi. He was staring at me like you'd stare at the piece of dog crap you just stepped on.

"Miss Ramirez. I'm assuming you're here, in the future, though, I expect you to understand the procedure of roll call, however complicated it might be. Please refrain from talking to Mr. Peace in the middle of class. It is…not beneficial…for either of you."

He was keeping himself in line. In the process, Mr. Godoi's face was turning bright red, his teeth were clenched tighter than a drum, and I could've sworn I saw a vein pulsing in his forehead. Gross.

"Yes, Mr. Godoi," my mouth replied automatically. Warren rolled his eyes. Whether it was at me, Miss Ramirez/Goody-Goody-Suck-Up, or Mr. Godoi's little jab, I'm not really sure. But I didn't pay attention at the time. I didn't care either way. _Bite me_, I challenged him silently. I waited patiently for Mr. Godoi to move on to "Ronaldson" before I started doing BioChem again._ Now…number six…_

I realized my face had probably taken on the same look that Warren's had had just a moment ago. Then I got poked in the side again.

"It's technical fusion," Warren said underneath his breath. I turned to him.

"What?"

"Tech. Ni. Cal. Fusion." Warren said, slow enough for a four-year-old child to catch.

"You think you're so…" I stopped and looked at the paper. He was right! Blushing-and feeling relieved I'd managed to stop myself in time- I wrote the answer down and mumbled, "Thanks." Warren nodded, looking bored, and slunk down further in his seat. I shook my head slightly. Unpredictable guy. Who would've known he'd been looking at my paper? Or that he'd known the answer? He wasn't in my BioChem class.

Class ended all too soon, and I groaned silently. I'd still had six more questions left to answer. I supposed I could've asked Warren, but I decided I'd rather take my chances with my BioChem teacher. Scribbling down the first things that came to mind, I raced out the class room and into the mosh pit.

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I really hate lunchtime sometimes. And it's not an anorexia problem or anything, because truth be told, I like eating as much as the next half-starved, half-brain dead kid that blows through the old cafeteria. No, it's more than that.

Most high schoolers realize this every single time they pick up their brown bag lunches: it's a political war. Trying to earn the right "label" by sitting with a particular group! Sitting with someone because you need to climb the social ladder! Eating where you can hear…or overhear… the latest gossip! Being close to a crush, the popular girl, the jock kid! Being seen as someone desirable because of the number of people, or the quality of people, at your table!

I'm guessing that's why I don't get too many invitations to parties or whatever. I rarely go eat with other people. If I do choose to indulge, I get sucked into their little bit of insanity. It's like a bloodsucking leech, that kind of stress will drain you. I can't stand it, and I can never figure out why people think it's all worth it. Plus, I've never really down the whole "clique/group/crowd" thing very well. I guess I'm more like a bird of prey than most people realize: I really kind of need my space. It's a claustrophobia issue or something.

I took my usual table, away from all the desired spots next to Will, the "hunky" savior of last year's Homecoming and superhero kind and the love of the long-sought-after-by-the-testosterone-bearers Layla Williams, or Lash, who, despite being a "bad guy", had climbed to the top of the social scene. He got held back a year because of his antics, but my guess is that he's über grateful for it now, because now he's got groupies.

I sat down with a sigh, taking out my lunch. Peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat, banana, yogurt. Yum. I started eating and took out a book that I'd gotten from the school library on the history of radioactive waste. I had an extra credit assignment I had to do. While I have limited talent in other areas, I'm a complete failure at school, always a step behind everyone else. It's a struggle to maintain my C average.

A flash of sky blue caught my eye as it fairly fumed past me. Amy again. My eyes followed her automatically, the way a bird of prey would follow movement in the grass, as she went to sit by another lone figure, Warren. Their table was right across from mine. Wonderful. A little soap opera drama, just what I needed to keep focused.

"All right, I'm going to lay a few things down, and you're going to listen," she simpered. Warren looked up, and his eyes narrowed.

Amy lifted one slender, blue-heeled foot up and crossed it over the other, looking like some kind of seductive secretary in her preppy jacket and matching skirt. Her eyes narrowed to match Warren's, and they stayed like that for a little while, just staring each other down.

"Yikes," I muttered, turning the page in my book while keeping an eye on the couple. The term might be questionable in the next few minutes.

"All right, here's the truth," said Amy, tossing a wave of blonde hair over her shoulder. Her cold eyes were fixed on Warren's. "I found someone else. And _he_ actually cares about me."

"Amy, I always cared about you. How can you say that?" Warren growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"I know you didn't! You never called, you never came to any of my volleyball games, you never came over. And…you would never…love me."

Warren snorted. "Not this again. Just because I wouldn't have freakin' _sex_ with you, you think I don't love you. Haven't you considered that maybe I wouldn't have sex with you _because _I care about you?"

Amy threw her hands in the air. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah, because you're too air headed to figure it out," Warren said, rolling his eyes and leaning back into his chair with arms crossed over his chest.

Amy's eyes bulged. "What did you call me?"

"Air. Head." Warren leaned forward again, a slight smirk on his face.

"NO ONE calls me an airhead, you jerk," hissed Amy. She called him a couple of good names that I would never say in front of my grandmother, and then finished it off. "We are so done! We've been done ever since you made the wrong choice that night. You're good for nothing. You're going to end up just like your father, rotting in jail in the peak of your life."

Warren's eyes narrowed to even more dangerous levels. "Don't bring my father into this."

"Why not? Son of a criminal. Son of a-"

Smack!

The cafeteria grew instantly dead quiet. They all stared in disbelief at the little scene before us. Warren stared at Amy, eyes colder than hers.

"That's enough."

The words were like drops of water melting off an icicle.

He stood up, his chair's scraping sound echoing throughout the silent room. Without looking back at the girl he had just slapped, Warren kept walking, going towards the exit. As he approached my table, I couldn't help but stare at him in awe. He'd actually just slapped his own ex-girlfriend. Warren ignored my gaze and kept walking.

And then a new face arrived on the scene.

"Hey, no one touches my girlfriend like that!"

I don't know Kevin Cortes that well, except for the fact that he's one of the only other Hispanic kids in Sky High. He's one grade above me, a senior, and he has the same powers as Amy, ice manipulation. Kevin's brown eyes were blazing, and I could tell he really liked Amy. The only problem with that was that he knew she was already seeing someone. So he couldn't be that great of a person to begin with, if he'll go out with someone else's girl.

Kevin didn't seem to be minding just then, because he stood up all angrily and threw his hand in the direction of Warren.

"Look out!"

The cry tore itself from my throat on what seemed to be all its own. It was soon lost in Warren's own shout as a huge ball of ice was flung into him. He stumbled and fell straight for me, and I yelped as he came at me. At the last second, he caught himself on the edge of my table, so that he was leaning just inches about me, panting. Our eyes locked, mine wide and startled, his wide and disbelieving. Then, they hardened. He stood, and turned to face Kevin.

Kevin gestured again, this time throwing a ball of instantly-freezing ice, but not at Warren. Instead, he threw it at one door. It splattered against the exit, freezing instantly. He did the same to the other set of doors, all the while staring the pyrokinetic down.

"You're not going anywhere until we settle this. She always had her mind on you, and now I'm going to take away the little distraction."

_Oh, please_, I thought. _Could this be any cornier?_ It couldn't have been any worse if a love struck teenage girl had been writing soap opera lines. _Get a life, you idiots!_

"K-Kevin, maybe this isn't such a good idea," Amy said quietly. So she wasn't a total rat. Just half. Maybe she cared about Warren more than her cold words said.

"Oh, this is not good," I muttered as Kevin gestured and turned his arms and hands into ice. The students in the cafeteria instantly started up the idiot "Fight, fight, fight!" thing, and I rolled my eyes. To them, it was just another form of entertainment. But I knew better. Someone could get really hurt. I gasped as Kevin threw a solid block of ice at Warren, and then gaped as Warren melted it by just looking at it.

Layla rushed up to the two of them, and I felt some measure of relief. Surely Warren would listen to her, his best friend's girlfriend, and his own trusted companion. But even Layla seemed helpless to do anything, even as she spoke to Warren and Kevin in urgent tones. Kevin and Warren were locked in their own little worlds. Layla seemed hesitant to use her powers on either of them.

Kevin spun around, turning into a tornado of icicles that came flying for Warren. He held up his hand and a wall of fire flashed up in front of him. Some melted, but others came hurtling through the wall. They smashed into him with enough force to knock him back a few steps.

Kevin smiled and came flying towards him. Warren looked up just in time to see a flurry of snow knock him down again, this time more heavily than before.

"Come on, wimp, fight back. Or don't you want your girlfriend back?"

Warren shook his head. "No, Kevin. I'm not going to bring myself to your pathetic level."

Kevin's eyes widened, and then his eyes darkened even more. He was really trying to impress Amy by defeating her ex. A sort of mate battle you usually see on Animal Planet. "Fine. I was hoping not to use this, but now I will. You want to know what the world thinks of your father?"

Warren's own eyes widened this time, and then they narrowed. If looks could kill, Kevin would've been dead. Then again, Warren would've died about five minutes ago.

"Don't," he warned.

"He's a sick, twisted, lying, deceitful, demented, insane _bastard_ that everyone is glad to have locked away. Your mom is happy he's locked away. I'm happy he's locked away. In fact, I think _you're _glad he's locked away! How does Baron Battle like solitary, Warren? Because everyone else likes it!"

Flame shot up around Warren's arms, curling up to his not unimpressive biceps like burning snakes. He looked like the angel of death, his long black flying back from the wave of heat that suddenly bloomed and his black clothes alit with intense flames. If I hadn't been scared of him before, this would have terrified me just looking at him.

Kevin didn't look so confident then. In fact, he started looking maybe a little panicked. He raised iced arms to fight back. As a tongue of flame came for his, licking its blazing chops, he was suddenly knocked to the ground by a flash of green.

Layla had managed to tackle Kevin to the ground with vines, but there was no stopping Warren now, especially not with flammable plants. Both looked up as he towered over them, flame streaming from his arms.

"You've got to be kidding," I said, rolling my eyes. Half of me said to stay where I was. It was a hopeless cause, after all. I was just a shrimpy girl with no real powers to stop Warren. What could I do? The other half told me that sometimes hopeless causes are the best ones. It was what my father had told me.

"All right then. That settles that." I shook off my fear of Warren and chose to do what my father would have done.

I leapt onto a table, took a running start, and jumped. My wings snapped open, and I went hurtling straight for Warren. He looked up just in time to see me collide into him, smashing him down to the floor. The impact shocked me, knocking the wind out of me. And then suddenly I wasn't the one on top. Warren had pinned me down by the wings. The worst part of that was that his hands were still flaming. Feathers were blackening. Muscle burned. Bones crackled. My wings were on fire.

I started to scream.


	4. Down Once More

**A/N: _i Hola, amigos ! Tigress aqui. Como esta usted? Lo siento_ for not posting sooner…as usual (and this chapter isn't even particularly long, I'm afraid). I'm pretty bad at updating, really, but I feel if I rush too much and don't think enough, the chapters turn out to be crap. Anyways, as per tradition, I write, you read, and YOU REVIEW (_USTED REPASA_). _POR FAVOR_. 00**

**_Gracias_.**

**t.I.G.r.E.S.S.**

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My wings hurt.

I opened my eyes, blinking in the sudden harsh light, to see an expanse of white in every direction. I found myself lying on my stomach on a little metal bed, my head carefully placed on a scratchy pillow. Propping myself up on my forearms, I inhaled deeply and almost gagged on the bitter antiseptic scent that rasped against my throat. Taking a closer look at my surroundings, I found an IV drip inserted in my right arm and my wings carefully bandaged and taken care of. The sight of them nearly broke my heart; they were crinkled, singed, and raw, a far cry from the beautiful limbs of flight they'd been only hours earlier. There was a dull ache in my upper back and wings rather than the searing pain that had been the last thing I'd felt, which I credited to medicine and painkillers.

I knew immediately where I was. There's only one hospital for my kind: St. Crosswind's. The location of this particular facility is even more secret than that of the Justice Council's meeting places, because in its doors lie dozens of injured, wounded, and otherwise vulnerable supers. As far as hospitals go, it's one of the nicest you'll ever find, being funded by nations worldwide, with state-of-the-art technology that hasn't been released anywhere yet, comforts unavailable to the public such as hologrid computers in every room, and staff that responds to any situation in the blink of an eye (speed-inclined supers are especially targeted in recruitments).

But, you know, a hospital is a hospital. And this specific one gave me bad memories.

Almost as if she was psychic (and I'm not ruling it out, mind you), a worker with a clipboard in her hands popped in the door and smiled at me.

"Ah, glad to see you're awake, Miss Ramirez," she said kindly. She had brown hair the color of a sparrow's down, alert gray eyes, and a nametag on her light blue-lavender scrubs that read "Carolyn, Kinetics Dep't". Carolyn got right to her duty and took a walkie talkie from her pocket. "Please inform Powers that her student is awake and ready for visitors." Satisfied with her work, the nurse sat down on the empty bed next to mine and started checking the IV. "Are you feeling better?"

I fixed what my mom calls my "hawk's stare" on her and nodded silently. I still felt a little disoriented. The last thing I'd seen before passing out had been Warren Peace's startled-but-fiercesome eyes burning into mine.

"You're lucky they were able to get you here quickly, Kestrel," she said, concern crinkling her eyebrows. "You suffered some serious burns, some third degree, on your wings. It will probably take a good couple of weeks for you to heal, according to your biometrics chart, but if you had been brought in fifteen minutes later you might have lost use of your right wing."

I shuddered mentally at the thought. I could've been crippled. And what use is a one-winged bird? I suppose it's a little like having only the left shear of a pair of scissors; without the other half the blades can't do what they're made to do. Without the other half, in fact, they're actually more dangerous.

"When can I go home?" I asked abruptly, looking at Carolyn. She gave me the same kind smile and motioned at the drip inserted in my arm.

"We'd like to keep you on the IV for another day," she explained. "Your system went through major shock, you've been out of it for almost four hours now, which is actually extremely well, considering all the factors. At any rate, after the IV, it's suggested that you stay here for a few days for more observation and treatment."

I sighed, rubbing my temples. I was used to sleeping on my stomach, oftentimes at night I sleep with my wings out, but at the moment I had the overwhelming desire to fold them in, as if I wanted to punish them for all the pain they'd caused me.

_No, not them. It was Warren Peace. _

"Is it all right if I retract my wings?" I inquired, staring at my hands as if they held the key to the mystery of life. I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

Carolyn frowned. "You are able to that?" She checked her clipboard and seemed to find something she hadn't known. "Oh, right, this side note does say that. Your principal gave us your powers record," she added. Carolyn looked back at me and shook her head. "Well, it's not advised. Your injuries will heal at a much faster rate if you keep them out."

Principal Powers came in just then, not allowing me the proper grieving time at this wonderful news. "Ah, Kestrel, it's good to see you awake."

"Um, hi," I managed.

The principal turned to the nurse. "Thank you for all your help."

Taking this as a sort of dismissal, Nurse Carolyn nodded and stood. "If you need anything, push the button by your bedside." I inclined my head, still in a sort of state of shock, and looked up at my principal as we became the only two people in the room.

"Your accident is very regrettable," the formidable woman said, taking Carolyn's seat on the adjacent bed and ignoring the chair by my bedside for some reason. "Rest assured that the perpetrators are being dealt with, though from what I understand you're not entirely innocent yourself. You fought with Warren Peace, am I right?"

_Erm…sort of, _I thought, but instead I nodded, though it was rather obvious from my condition.

"Glad we're clear on that. For punishments, Mr. Peace has detention every Wednesday and Friday for two months, Mr. Cortes has six weeks, and Miss Samuels three. Rest up, Kestrel. When you come back, because your part was, from what I hear, very minor, you'll serve only two weeks."

"Yes, ma'am," my mouth said. My mind was blank. This was all happening rather fast, and hard for me to process. When Warren fried my wings, he must've fried my brain, too. Principals Powers must've realized it, because her reprimanding, detention-handing-out voice Power Principal voice softened.

"You received the worst injuries, I'm afraid," she said gently. "And that is, as I said, very regrettable. I'm sorry, and we'll be rooting that you'll recover soon. Your mother said she would be here after work, she's being shuttled here as we speak, I believe. She sounded very worried on the phone."

Powers sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "It's getting to be a large problem with Mr. Peace, isn't it?" she said, almost rhetorically. "This is his third fight that he's been involved during his entire high school career, but it's not his only offense. The faculty and I have been discussing expelling him from the school."

"No!" I blurted, and then instantly alarm filled my mind. _What the-? What is WRONG with me?! This is the guy that charbroiled your wings, and you're defending him?!_

Principal Powers appeared to be wondering the same thing, but thought better of inquiring after it.

"Um, well, yes," she said, standing and smoothing the creases from her pinstripe pantsuit. "When your mother arrives, please ask her to come talk to me, all right?"

I nodded again, wanting my mother there with me more than anything else at that moment. _Mama's girl. Haha. _

"Very good, I'll be here for another hour or so." With a click and clack of her heels, the principal went out the door.

I lay there for awhile longer, just thinking and trying to ignore the twinges in my back and wings. Just listening to the sound of my own breathing and the tirade of my thoughts. My fists clenched and unclenched unconsciously. Why? Why had this happened? When people played the heroes they were supposed to win the day, weren't they? Had Warren done this on purpose?

_Accidents happen,_ my rationale reminded me. _He didn't mean to do it, and you know it. _

_I guess,_ my whiny, pathetic three-year-old mind retorted, _But he still hasn't won any points in my book, the idiotic, careless typical male--_

"Kes?"

I sat up abruptly to see my mother in the doorway, a reassuring yet concerned smile on her face.

"Hi, Mom," I said tiredly, not sure what was going through her mind at the moment. She came around to my bedside and sat down on a chair by my bed, resting her purse on her lap. In a very motherly fashion, she leaned over and put her hand on my forehead.

"I came as soon as I could get off work," she explained. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I should be," I admitted, not daring to look again at the pitiful state of my posterior limbs. "They do a good job here, don't they?"

Her lips, which were missing a good deal of lipstick (oftentimes she forgets to put a second coat on later in the day, not that she really needs it), pressed together, and I knew she was thinking about the last time we'd been in here, as I had been. At last, Mom just smiled sadly. "Yeah, honey, they do the best they can."

"Yeah."

We sat there together for a few minutes, lost in our own little whirlpools of reverie, until I remembered Principal Power's advice.

"Oh, um, my principal wanted you to go see her," I said. Mom nodded and bent down to kiss my forehead.

"I'll be right back, sweetie, then we'll talk, all right?" she said, standing.

"Okay," I agreed, smiling wryly. "It's not like I'm going anywhere." I raised my wrist to show her my IV, and Mom laughed weakly.

"No, I suppose not," she said, and then I was alone again in my room.

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"_Hahaha, well, I'm afraid that's out of the question. You see, I'm married and-"_

Click.

"_-so Bittersweet is one supervillainess who won't be hurting anyone again, all thanks to-"_

Click.

"_And just a SPRINKLE of vanilla, and you have yourself a magnificent, delicious cake ready for any-"_

Click.

"_-Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was raw like me? Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Don'tcha…don'tcha baby…"_

Click!

I changed the channel again rather quickly. Psh, MTV. Like I really wanted to watch a bunch of ho's gyrating around like they didn't care who was ogling their butts. Gross.

Anyways, as I said before, St. Crosswind's is really one of the nicest hospitals around. 987 channels of blissful cable, plus sixteen that weren't available to normals, or un-super people. A real treat for someone whose TV only picks things up when you feel like wrestling with the obstinate antenna that won't get any channels for anything less than fifteen minutes of dancing around the living room, no matter how many times you threaten it.

"_Zack! I can't believe you flushed my hard-earned allowance down the toilet!"_

"_Neither can I! I could've bought another rubber chicken with that!"_ **(a/n: my lame excuse for a made-up _Suite Life_ episode, haha)**

"Yay, Disney Channel!" I cheered happily, and I settled down to watch _The Suite Life of Zack and Cody_. I would probably never admit to anyone at school that I simply adore something as childish as _The Suite Life_, but I'd be willing to bet that neither would a bunch of other people. One of those guilty pleasures, I imagine.

Mom and Principal Powers had left hours ago. They'd settled issues such as legal ramifications, what was going to go on my permanent record, and other wonderfully boring things that I don't have to deal with as a minor. Mom had offered to stay at the hospital with me (there's a wing of the hospital devoted entirely to worried relatives of the hospital charges who don't feel like being shuttled to and fro to a top secret facility whose location changes every four hours), but I declined. For one thing, I didn't want to make Mom's already-tight schedule more complicated, and for another, while I wouldn't have minded her company, I felt like being alone for awhile.

My stomach complained loudly, but I silently told it to be quiet, stealing a glance at my IV. Thanks to the drip, I couldn't have any solid food until a few hours after it was removed. It didn't endear the IV to me any. I had an overwhelming craving for a nice cheeseburger with the works and a chocolate shake. I guess my little brush with death…okay, not really _death_, but you know what I mean…made me appreciate things like junk food a little more and things like calories and scales a little less. Live life, after all. _Viva vida!_

All in all, my few hours at the hospital had been…well, very boring. There wasn't much to do but watch TV and use the hologrid to go on the Internet. Principal Powers had promised to have my schoolwork sent over ASAP, but thus far nothing had arrived. Maybe the teachers had decided to give the injured girl a break.

Lowering the volume on Maddy's obnoxious voice, I brought the holo interface back up on the hologrid. They teach basic usage of these things at Sky High, because that's all supers use on missions and stuff. Soon enough they'll replace computers and stuff in the normals' world, too.

I touched the Internet's icon and brought up the Myspace homepage. There really wasn't that much to do for me on Myspace, as I have a grand total of six friends that I don't even talk to very often, so I didn't go on regularly. However, at the moment I was bored enough to check it anyways. Signing on to I saw that my page had actually gotten a bunch of hits. Huh. I supposed that everyone was now interested to see who the idiotic suicidal girl who'd tackled Warren Peace was. What I didn't realize was that it was beyond that. Wayyy beyond that.

"New Comments!"

"New Messages!"

"New Friend Requests!"

"Interesting," I muttered at last, overwhelmed by the 54 new comments on my profile, 47 messages, and 31 new friend requests. People I'd never even talked to before were wanting to know if I was okay, if I was at St. Crosswind's, if I wanted to be their Myspace friends.

My Ultrasensitive Suspicion Alarm 3000 Deluxe went off in my head. Usually people only associate with someone like me if there's something to be gained. _What's with you people?_

I could almost feel the raptor bird in me shift uneasily. Birdie no likie spotlight.

"Aw, crap," I said aloud. "Any way you look at it, this cannot be good."

I didn't feel like dealing with all the requests at the moment, especially I realized that "hArTbREaKER67" was Gina Hartman, one of my least favorite people. She was sort of a blonder, preppier, and ten times more annoying version of Gwen Grayson, and since Gwen had left the school Gina was the new social butterfly. What was a butterfly doing chasing a hawk?

"Bad things, bad things," I muttered, and I dumped the Myspace page for I became aware that I'd been literally nodding off for the fourth time, I figured it was time for bed. I said goodbye to Stacey and Clinton (_What Not to Wear_ rocks all socks, believe me) and turned off the TV to snuggled down into my antisepticky-smelling sheets.

All of a sudden, I could feel a wave of homesickness surge through me. I wanted my familiar down comforter and my angel teddy bear, Rachel, and, yes, even my mom. The day's events were finally beginning to take its effects on my heart, and somehow, I couldn't stop the little tears from welling up in my eyes and flowing down my cheeks like little rivers of liquid emotion.

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**Tigress:…'kay. Even if you didn't like it…make a writer happy and review:hands out cookies to reviewers: Mmm…chocolate chip…0.o **

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**Special thanks to the few and faithful and all-around awesome: Tinuel, EMBER91, Rayvin18, Tigger101, Bitsy Glitter, st.elmo-lover, and the rest. You guys rock. The next chapter will have a dedication. **


	5. Think of Me

**Hey, guys. It's been wayyy too long. No, I'm not dead, just lazy :'( Anyways, thanks for all my lovely reviews! I love you all, heheh. Anyways, this chapter is dedicated to Tinuel, whose helpful and thoughtful reviews have been one of the reasons I look forward to putting a new chapter up (though I'm sorry she had to have such a lame chapter dedicated to her :P). Thank you:D **

**Oh, and by the way, I changed all the titles of the story. I've decided to make it a theme…tell me if you can figure out what it is and what the reason is. I'll dedicate the next chapter to whoever figures it out first.**

**t.I.G.r.E.S.S.**

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I woke up because I felt like there was someone watching me. Almost instantly, my eyes were open and I was wide awake, jolting up and off my stomach like the pillow had become a pile of snakes. Almost as instantly, however, pain shot through my wings and back at the sudden movement, and I gasped at the unexpected flare. Apparently the medicine had worn off a bit.

"Take it easy," a gruff voice commanded. The hairs rose on the back of my neck, and I gulped. Whose face was I forced to see first thing in the morning in the hospital? One of my friends? A doctor? A nurse, maybe?

Nope. The one who'd put me in the hospital in the first place.

"You're going to hurt yourself even more."

I tried to say something along the lines of "Wow, thanks for that innovative suggestion. You obviously care so much about my wellbeing because you charbroiled my wings into something reminiscent of fresh off the grill. I appreciate your concern!" Instead, thanks to having just woken up and a sudden lack of courage, I grunted, "Hnnnh."

I felt my face heat up at this nonintellectual sound that would've made a caveman proud, and the facts that my hair was all messy, I had yesterday's makeup on, _and_ _I was in a frickin' hospital gown_ just added to my joy. It's not like I really cared that Warren had seen me like that…it was just that no one should have seen me like that, period. _Crap._

I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed to let my tense and throbbing wings unfurl a little. I was feeling a little dizzy, and the pull of the nasty tubes in my arms stung where they entered, making my stomach roll queasily. I took the time to look at Warren. He was dressed in his typical cheerful attire, black jeans, a black T-shirt with a red eagle design on it, and a black leather jacket. His hair hung down in front of his face, all emo-like as usual as he eyed me eyeing him. There was something in his hands that were sharply contrasted amidst the sea of black and red: a small bouquet of white, pink, and yellow flowers. It looked something like a scene from one of those little kid shows: _"Okay, kids, what doesn't belong in this picture?"_

Clearing my throat once or twice, I clenched and unclenched my hands under my thin sheet nervously. "Um, what are you doing here?"

Warren held up the flowers, looking a little discomfited. "Well, when someone is sorry that they accidentally caused another person harm, they usually go see that person and tell them that they're sorry."

I nodded, still feeling a little apprehensive. It was an accident and everything, I knew that for sure. But I still couldn't quell the feeling of having a loose cannon sitting in my room, watching me and waiting for me to mess up so he could do worse than just scorch my wings. I knew the hospital people wouldn't let anyone malicious in, but all the same…

"Well, apology accepted." I didn't know what to say from there, really. Uneasily, I started finger-combing my hair, something of a nervous habit. It's actually really straight, so it's not that hard to work it into order without a brush. That's beside the point, though.

There was a few moments of uncomfortable silence- during which I wished myself in any other position than the one I was in- while we both chose to look at anything but each other, and then Warren sighed. He crossed to the other side of the room and opened the cabinet under the sink.

"How are you feeling?" he inquired mildly as he produced a large plastic vase that the hospital apparently provided complimentary. I absently noted that it seemed like he knew what he was doing…like maybe he'd done it before a couple of times.

"Ah," I said, taken by surprise by the conversation's focus on me, "um…as well as can be." I answered as truthfully as I could, not wanting for him to feel sorry for me.

"Eh…I'm glad," he said, the words sounding a little awkward. Warren filled the vase and unwrapped the flowers. He placed the plants in and came back to my bedside to deposit them by my nightstand. I was startled even more when he pulled up a chair and sat down. The solitary hawk in me tensed warily, and I fixed cautious eyes on him.

Warren visibly looked as uncomfortable as I felt, but it seemed like there was something in him that wouldn't let him leave just like that. He played with the black, fingerless glove on one of his hands before speaking again.

"They look bad, you know," he said frankly, not meeting my eyes.

"Huh?"

"Your…your wings."

Self-consciously, I pulled the aforementioned limbs closer to my body automatically, ignoring the twinges of pain in them as I did so and looked away. He looked so…sorry. There was something of juvenile tragedy in his large, dark eyes, and the way he sat, hunched over and vulnerable…for an inexplicable reason, my previous anger melted away like it had never been, and I just felt like I had to reassure him and comfort him.

"Uh…well…it's all right, I-"

Unexpectedly, Warren cut me off. "No, it's not," he said sharply, looking at me intensely. So intensely that I felt my heart squeeze. His gaze locked with mine, and I found that I couldn't look away, that the air was heavier, that it was harder to breathe.

"I…" he started, then it seemed like the fire went out of him. He let out a long breath. "It's not the first time I've done something like this. Put people in the hospital, I mean. It's…it's not all right."

"But you…you don't mean to, I'm sure." I fought to find words to tell him that I wasn't angry anymore. He was forgiven.

He let out a dry, brittle-sounding laugh, as if it was pressed too hard it would break like a dried leaf. "You know," he said, pseudo-changing topics all together, "if you hadn't interfered when you did, I could've put Kevin and Layla in the hospital, too."

I blinked. I did know that. The knowledge was a slight salve on my painful burns.

"I…I just…get that way," he admitted bitterly, looking fascinated by a spot on the wall just past my head. "I get so angry, it's like I can't see straight anymore…" Warren seemed to wake up suddenly, and he shook his head, looking chagrined at having said so much. I had to admit, it _was_ astonishing. The most he'd ever said to me had been an average of single-syllabled words, with an occasional sentence thrown in. And before now, I had been very glad of it, him with his rough and uncouth ways and aura of intimidation.

But…but now…I wasn't so sure. There was more to him than just a hot-headed thug, I could see that now. He was a _person_, something that had never occurred to me before. He had a mind and a conscience and a heart, unlike my earlier assumptions. It was so…strange. To see him with his guard down like that, I mean.

"Anyways, when are you getting out of here?" asked Warren, as if he was in a hurry to get the subject off him (like I'd even brought it up, anyways).

"I'm not sure," I said, fiddling with the corner of my sheet that had been laying across my lap to cover my legs (the hospital gown didn't do that great of a job in that area). "Probably tomorrow…I don't want to stay here longer than I have to." I looked up as the words left my mouth. That sounded too much like complaining to me, too much like the topic we'd tried to leave behind.

But Warren just nodded understandingly. "Well…I…that is…just…um, get better soon," he finished lamely. He stood and headed for the door. Just as he was almost out, he turned. "If you, uh, need help with anything after you get back to school, just, ah, ask me."

I opened my mouth to reply with "thank you", but he left before I could speak. The offer had probably embarrassed him. Though, I might add, I thought it was very sweet.

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Compared with my interesting morning, the rest of the day was über boring. I was very thankful, however, when the nurse took out my IV. Though I thought I was going to throw up from just watching the needle slide out of my wrist. Even though it made me sick to think that the tube had been jammed in my veins, somehow I couldn't look away as it was pulled out gently.

There's one thing I can say for being in the hospital: it's the most boring thing in the world. Even one with the most state-of-the-art technology in the world. I got tired of watching the TV, doing homework, surfing the net on the hologrid, and playing the complimentary Gamecube. I wasn't even allowed to look out the windows and people watch or anything, on account of St. Crosswind's location being constantly teleported from one "government building" to the next to avoid evil bad guys shooting up defenseless supers.

I was left with a lot of time to think and sleep. Nurses came in every once in a while, but aside from that my mind just kind of went on automatic. Little flashes and images kept flicking through my head…Warren, looking like the flaming Grim Reaper, Amy, Kevin, and Layla's frightened faces, Warren looking so apologetic and innocent…that particular image seemed to be on repeat mode, because I kept wandering back to it.

You know, maybe I was on too much meds.

I was in the middle of starting a history report that kind Mr. Redden had thoughtfully assigned us when my mom came in. I was kind of surprised to see her; I'd lost track of the time and was startled to realize it was the end of the day. Homework had kept me preoccupied for a good three hours.

Mom looked tired. I greeted her quietly, watching as she made her way to my bedside. The way she sat reminded me something of a tired, little old lady who'd just taken a long journey that had been far too long for her weary bones. There was something on her mind. She was troubled.

"What's the matter?" I inquired, gently placing my hand on her forearm. Mom gave me a brave little smile and placed her free arm on my hand.

"It's nothing, Kes."

I eyed her. She was lying. Everything about her told me that, from her posture to the forced-neutral tone of her voice. But I wasn't about to press it. Mom looked like she had enough on her mind, and she'd probably tell me in time.

Changing the subject, I asked, "How was your day?"

"Oh, just fine, _chica_." Her mouth curved up lopsidedly. "How about yours?"

"Eh, fine," I echoed, pulling my hand away to touch the spot where the tubes had been.

Mom automatically moved my hand gently and touched the little pinprick herself. "Did it hurt when they took it out?"

"Nah, it just felt gross."

She smiled slightly at this, and we fell silent once more. I didn't think I'd ever felt this awkward around my own mother. Not even her drinking escapades had ever made me feel like this. What was she keeping from me?

After a few more moments of listening to the clock in the hallway tick away, Mom opened her mouth, then closed it.

I touched her hand. "Mom, just say it. What's wrong?"

She looked at me, and I could almost see the bags and wrinkles on her face, marked deep by worry and apprehension. The wheels were turning in her head, and at last, she decided I was grown enough to hear what she had to say.

She spoke, and I listened.

"Kes…what the school is willing to pay isn't going to cover your medical expenses."

I winced inwardly. _Oh, no_. Our narrow budget was going to be stretched to the limit, then. _Are we going to be homeless? Sell our belongings? Is Mom going to have to work even more hours than before?_

"What…what's going to happen?" I asked quietly, feeling my face mirror her worry. _What does this mean for me?_

"Kes…I'm sorry," she whispered, shame shadowing her face, "But I'm going to need you to get a job. Maybe two."

The knot in my stomach unraveled. It wasn't as bad as I thought. In fact, why had I never taken a job sooner? Mom had always objected to the idea, insisting that I focus on school and being a teen, but our finances should've overruled her fantasy of me leading a normal teenage life. I should've started working a long time ago. I felt humiliation well up in me that I was now only going to get a job because it was my fault that we had more money problems than before.

"Don't worry, Mom," I told her, my voice soft and reassuring. "I'd be more than happy to start working. Just…don't worry about it."

I knew it bothered her deeply that she had to ask me. It was compromising her maternal morals and parenting values, but sometimes in life, those things have to be gotten over.

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**T: All right, guys. I've done my duty (finally). Time for you to do yours. :) And if you're bored, take a good look at the chapter titles and take a guess at what they have in common. **

**And hmmm…I wonder where Kessy is going to start working:D **


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